


Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper

by tepidspongebath



Series: Christmas Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Humor, M/M, and equally inappropriate stocking stuffers, inappropriate gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: Wherein it is always advisable to read the fine print; useful gifts are preferable; worse options were considered; technique is important (color, not so much); the favor is returned; and Sherlock Holmes plays matchmaker.For the Seasonal Fucking Cheer Ficathon prompt: Inappropriate gifts: benefits and drawbacks.





	

_Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper._

The note, written in Sherlock’s energetic scrawl, was on a plain white card on a package wrapped in plain brown paper. In deference to the occasion, a brightly colored bow had also been taped to it. There was actually more to the note, fine print as you might say, but when one has been given a Christmas present by Sherlock Holmes, the shock can make you miss things. In hindsight, since it was a present from _Sherlock Holmes_ , Molly should have paid more attention to the fine print.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” She put her eggnog down on the coffee table of 221B to better appreciate the fact that the world’s only consulting detective had given her an actual _gift_.

“Yes,” said Sherlock crisply. “But, as I have been repeatedly reminded, _‘tis the season_ for this sort of thing” --he shot John a long-suffering look-- “and I haven’t expressed my gratitude for everything you’ve done, and it’s been a rough year for us all. You may want to wait till you get home before opening - oh.”

For once, he hadn’t spoken fast enough. Molly had already torn off the wrapping paper and taken off the lid, and was exhibiting all the signs of acute embarrassment as she and everyone else in the room stared at the thing nestled in the box on her lap.

“Yeah, mate,” said Lestrade. “You probably shouldn’t have.”

“I tried to warn you. I even said so on the note.” Sherlock sounded testy, possibly because he’d actually tried to be circumspect this time, it wasn’t _his_ fault.

“Oh,” said Molly in a small voice, belatedly reading the rest of the card. “You did.”

“I wanted to get you something useful-”

“Useful!” spluttered Lestrade.

“-not some inane holiday gewgaw to further clutter up your flat. You ended things with Tom-”

“And you remember _his_ name.”

“-months ago, and you’ve gotten used to a certain level of sexual activity - ‘lots of sex’, I believe you said. You’ve dated since, but not frequently, and you don’t often take those dates to bed. You’re also not the type to go clubbing in search of one night stands. I know from John that a sudden dearth in your sex life can be singularly frustrating, sometimes to the point that judgment and functionality become compromised-”

“Hey!”

“-so because presenting you with regular sessions from the better class of male escort service would be both unacceptable and out of budget, this was the best option. I asked Mrs. Hudson for pointers-”

“I thought they were for you!”

“-and based my selection on your ex-fiance’s measurements, since you found him satisfying in that respect, if not in others.” Sherlock drew a breath that clearly said _Meat dagger, I ask you_. Then he noticed, apparently for the first time, that Molly had been staring dumbly at the box for quite a while, her face screwed up and very, very red. “What’s the matter? Did I get it wrong?” To his credit, he began to look distressed himself. “Would you have preferred something bigger? Or should I have gotten the purple instead of the pink?”

The awkward silence that followed was made worse by John’s Christmas carols carrying on about peace and goodwill to all mankind in the background.

“That’s, um,” said Molly at last. “That’s very...thoughtful...of you. Um.” She seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the thing in the box. It was, indeed, quite pink. “Pink's alright. You’re not _wrong_ , but it’s, um, more of a question of technique rather than, um, size. I suppose,” she added, brightening considerably, “this means you won’t mind the box of condoms I put in your Christmas stocking. They’re for sharing.”

By the fireplace, next to the said stocking, John choked audibly on his cocoa.

“Ah.” It was Sherlock’s turn to color. “Thank you, I can assure you they’ll be useful. Very useful. Won’t they, John?” Then he rallied. “If it’s _technique_ you’re looking for...for obvious reasons, I don’t have firsthand data, but I have it on good authority that Lestrade is surprisingly proficient at oral sex, and he is newly single himself. To my knowledge, neither he nor his ex-wife have ever stabbed the other’s hand with a fork, but I gather it was an unsatisfying union, especially in the past few years. You two should have dinner.” He turned to Lestrade with a horribly conspiratorial grin. “Garrett, will a reservation at Angelo’s be an adequate Christmas present?”


End file.
